Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Feb 13, 2017 21:51:42 GMT -5
I grew up where the wind hurts my face. Now I work where Grimm hurts my face.
Twenty-odd inches of snow in a matter of a few days was enough to send the state of Maine into a tailspin; every company in the affected regions of the state had shut down, minus plow truck drivers, taxi cabs, and gas stations (those willing to stay open for the inevitable flood of bored locals looking to buy beer.) Unfortunately for Whitey Ford, he was one of those invevitables. The PCW superstar had wandered to a Cumberland Farms in search of all the beer they had.
Yes. All the beer.
Ford had made a habit of returning to his home state in between Trauma events, but in true Ford fashion he refused to be an adult and check the weather. He didn't notice the nor'easter coming straight to Maine, or the nearly two feet of snow very specifically slated to land on the day his flight was scheduled to depart. Again, in true Ford fashion, he had refused to pack any luggage because he 'couldn't be bothered.' Upon entering the gas station and finding out that somehow, someway, the manager refused to sell him all the beer in the store, let alone a six pack, Whitey had finally looked at his surroundings. All throughout the eight mile cab ride, he hadn't noticed the torrential snowstorm. Both his lack of attention and lack of being sold alcohol probably was a by-product of drinking himself stupid the last week to celebrate a well earned win.
His breath didn't only smell like booze; it even got the cashier drunk.
Opting out of throwing a hissy fit about not being served, Whitey had decided to trudge across the street to a small bar. Closed, of course, due to inclement wether. So Ford trudged on back, wearing nothing but a white wife beater and a pair of black shorts...and sandals, because why the fuck not? The cab companies he had tried to hail promised him a quick pickup from the gas station, but with the weather and the volume of calls it could take hours.
How many unemployed drug addicts are driving around this city as we speak, looking for their next hit? Ford thought to himself grimly, sitting inside and watching the snow fall. The gas station was fairly new, and sported a bar-like seating area near the bay windows for people to enjoy their gourmet nachos and microwaved hot dogs. I bet if I just put on fucking facebook that I'd buy a teener for the first junkie to pick me up I'd be on my way to the airport in no time. How the fuck was I going to transport a hundred cases of beer in a cab, anyways? Ford had sobered up in the hour or so he had been sitting inside, and cursed himself for being so spontaneously inneffective.
Still, the afterglow of his victory over Nathan Saniti and the infamous Grimm lingered in the back of his head, leaving a perma-smirk over his face despite the dire conditions. Even if he missed Trauma because of the weather, he had delivered the exact package that he promised at the last show; a nice big bushel of ass kicking and intellect that was sure to turn heads (as if he hadn't done that already.) Whitey cradled his chin in the palms of his hands, watching the traffic crawl by at a turtles pace, looking for the telltale yellow and black City Cab colors to come and take him away.
"Are you retarded?"
The voice jarred him from his half-daydreaming concentration, and his first instinct was to throw his right elbow towards the source of the sound. But for some reason his arms both felt numb...something about the flirty, sarcastic tone nearly froze him in his tracks. Whitey's watchful, knowing eyes darted over without him moving his body in the slightest, only to fall upon an unconventional beauty. A woman with pitch black hair and a tribal neck tattoo sat a few stools down from him, regarding him with a raised eyebrow and the corner of her mouth sneering upwards in a sarcastic smile.
Ford returned his gaze out the window, still not moving his body. "I mean, the teachers said I was, but I proved them wrong. I passed high school after 8 great, great, GREAT...good years." He replied, finally turning his head to get a better look at his antagonist. Her eyes were nowhere near as dark as her hair, shining a deep green hue in his direction without any shame. Most people, most of all women, would avert their eyes when Whitey made eye contact. This woman, though, kept her icy gaze fixated on his own blue eyes. Challenge accepted. When their eye contact broke, it wasn't out of fear or discomfort but almost out of boredom on her part. She wore what looked like seven different layers, starting with a long sleeve shirt, going into two or three pastel colored hoodies, and ending with two large winter coats.
"If you expect me to believe you actually passed high school, then you're calling me retarded, and I don't take insults from grown men who dress in wife beaters." The woman answered, readjusting her right hand around a Dunkin Donuts coffee, holding it in between her and the bay window. "And I called you retarded. I didn't mean to inspire conversation. Please shut up."
Ford barked out a laugh, confident on the outside as always, but on the inside he felt a little...shaken. "Listen, babe, I don't know if you know who I am, but I'm kind of a big deal. My name's--"
"I...DON'T...WANT...TO...TALK...TO...YOU." The raven haired beauty spoke in a sing song, mocking voice as she cradled her coffee with both hands now. In a bored fashion she turned her head to look past the PCW veteran, revealing that the right side of her head was shaved, and the long flowing black hair only rested on her back and left shoulder. The word 'smitten' flashed through Ford's mind for just an instant.
"...Whitey Ford. Maine native, I was raised in this town, and I believe you've heard of PCW, unless you're the pot calling the kettle black." He finished his statement anyways. "I see that you're kind of a daft punk rock kind of girl, so I'll explain it. I mean that--"
"That I'm retarded and you're not. Or, as I like to say...'I know you are but what am I.'" Came the woman's response, quick as a whip. "You must be desperate for a friend, if you continue to talk to someone who called you a fucking retard. Jesus, old man. Let it go." From within her outermost coat pocket, she pulled a soft pack of Marlboro's and tapped one out onto her palm. As Whitey reached his hand out to snatch it away from her, she recoiled just far enough to be out of reach. "Easy there. If you're going to smoke today, you might not be able to outlast Grimm in the ring." And with that, the woman stood up and headed towards the door, tossing her coffee in the trashcan outside as soon as the automatic doors opened.
Fully intrigued and a little bit awestruck, Ford followed the woman after a flabbergasted moment, rushing out behind her just as she struck a match to light her smoke. The wind was howling, but the match lit and the flame danced to and fro yet stayed lit...until Whitey blew it out with his own lungs, just out of spite. She glared at him, venom seeping from her eyes. "So you do know me!" He declared, proceeding to snatch the cigarette from her gloved hand...
...only to receive one of the hardest slaps the state of Maine had ever heard! The smoke dropped from his hands, the right side of his face numb. "Yes I fucking know who you are, you fucking...you fucking asshole!" She screamed in his face, and fed him one more slap across the left cheek this time. "I know that you've been questioned for murder twice. I know that you cheat as often as possible. I know that you're an alcoholic drug addict piece of shit, and I know that you're trying to change how people think of you on fucking television!" Spittle flew from her mouth, a surprising rage coming from her small, five-foot-something frame. "I know that you have no right saying that you're from Maine because it makes us all look bad. I know that you're going to fight Grimm, and win or lose, you're only going to hurt everyone else around you. You don't get to fuck with me, Whitey, because I AM a good person, not some fucking pretender! It's too late to pretend that your agenda is for the greater fucking good, we all know it's for you and you alone!"
She swung one more time, but this time Ford caught her by the wrist nearly effortlessly, pulling her in close. "Chill the fuck out, and don't hit me again."
Hellfire was shining bright in her eyes at this point, however. "You know, I followed you in USCW! I followed you in AWA! Before you decided to fuck the world and think of only yourself, and I fucking believed in you!" She screamed in his face. Eight out of the ten gas pumps were being used, and everybody was watching them now. Whitey felt trapped almost, and more than a little intimidated. "But you turned your back on everybody and did you, right? Get the fuck off me! LET ME FUCKING GO!"
His mind was racing. She was nobody to him, but her words cut him like a thousand knives. There was no reason he should feel anything for this overly bundled tiny woman, and God knows Whitey had no problem slapping the shit out of a woman for stepping over her boundaries. But he just stood there for a moment, and let go of her wrist. She believed in me? She knew me back when...back when... Before he could even finish his thought, his eyes went to her purse, a large knitted thing slung over her shoulder. Tears were welling in here eyes...
...eyes that widened with shock as a wiry man wearing a red hoodie ran out of the store, snatched the purse off of her shoulder with a violent tug, and in nearly the same instance leapt into the open door of a Honda Civic, coasting by. The car sped up as soon as the door closed.
Now this is where it gets a little fuzzy. Whitey's head began to spin, a perfect mixture of agony and rage roiling around inside of his skull. Somewhere, he could hear the woman screaming obscenities but he couldn't make out the words. Ford's vision became that of a tunnel, only focusing on the Civic as it spun out in the snowy parking lot, trying to gain traction and make an escape. That was the exact moment that he started running. At first Ford thought he could catch the car before it even left the parking lot, but one of his sandals betrayed him and he fell chin-first onto the wintery pavement. The warm feeling of a fresh wound eminated from his chin, but he paid it no mind, kicking off both sandals and regaining his feet, having minimally more success barefoot than with summer footwear in the February climate.
The Civic took a right out of the parking lot, still spinning it's tires trying to gain traction. Knowing he wouldn't be able to make it directly on time, Ford beelined it towards the sidewalk closest to the car in a straight shot. Just as the wheels started to accelerate as they should, he leapt with arms oustretched and managed to grab the trunk right near the rear windshield. Soon he was holding on for dear life, his legs flying from the back of the car, fingers clutching their hold with knuckle whitening pressure. However, only a few hundred feet from the gas station, the driver of the Civic slammed on the breaks with the hope of throwing his pursuer over the top of the car.
Whitey wasn't smart enough to 'roll with the punches,' however.
With the car coming to a sudden stop, Whitey flew forward head first, his forehead making a large spidery crack in the rear windshield. Blood was flowing freely from his chin and his new head wound now, making his grip precariously slippery. The Civic tried to continue forward, but once again the snow foiled any quick attempts of escape. Both doors must be locked...what the fuck am I doing? Am I trying to get that bitches purse back, what the FUCK AM I DOING?!?! In a sudden moment of insane clarity, Whitey used all of his arm and neck strength to pull his head towards the windshield, and smash his forhead into the already broken spot.
CRACK
CRACK
COCAINE ( Just kidding.) CRACK!
The rear window finally gave way, and Whitey pulled himself into the backseat of the car, blood flowing freely from his now aggravated wounds. The passenger was screaming, clutching his stolen purse in one hand and punching feebly at his under-dressed assailant. Whitey was running on adrenaline then, however, and felt nothing. With one solid backhand, he rendered the thief dazed and thoroughly confused. The driver gave up trying to accellerate and turned to face Ford with a roar of defiance only to have his cheek hooked with Ford's index and middle finger, fishooking him towards the former World Champion for a ferocious headbutt.
That last blunt force trauma to the head finally took it's took. The driver was out cold, but Whitey could feel the world spinning faster and harder than before. Woozily, he reached towards the purse sitting on the center console...but found his hand grasped by the thief! Raising his eyes dangerously, Whitey simply said "I will kill you," in a calm, controlled voice. The thief took one look at Ford and opened the car door, fleeing down a side street.
Whitey crawled fully inside of the car, squirming into the front seat and opening the drivers door, unceremoniously kicking him out onto the snow covered pavement. It was then he caught his face in the rear view mirror, a mask of blood seeping from a large gash on his forehead. But in the background, after getting over the initial nasea of seeing his own blood covering his stupid face...he noticed the black haired woman jogging up the street.
Whitey snatched the purse up, stepped out of the car and directly onto the drivers stomach as forceful as possible, and walked towards her. She paused for a moment, only letting her bravado falter for a second before storming up to him and snatching her property from his hands. "Friends of yours? Is this a fucking hoax?!?"
"Fuck. You." Whitey said as mean as possible, but he could feel his knees start to buckle. He put a hand on the car for balance, as incognito as possible. "You really followed me from as far back as USCW? Fine. Fucking fine. People change, and I did what I had to do. I made a name for myself and I broke from the fucking mold. Between you and me? I regret some of the things I did. I really do. But I'm a fucking champion, do you understand? I did it all for me. But don't...for a god damned second...believe that I'm doing this for myself. It's never too late to right some wrongs, and it's never too late to do some good in this world, even if cunts like you hound me every step of the way. Now excuse me. I have somewhere to be."
Ford half sat, half fell into the still running car, and started to drive off, hoping that the movement would keep him from passing out from the pain. "Wait!" He heard her voice again, still as intriguing as it had been a few minutes before. He didn't turn around, but locked eyes with her in the drivers side mirror.
"My name is Jaime. Thank you, Whitey. Prove me wrong...do the right thing. Men like you can save the world."
Whitey had no response he could vocalize, but a sense of pride nearly overwhelmed him then. So off he drove, a car thief in the end, but an unlikely vigalante in the long run.
Twenty-odd inches of snow in a matter of a few days was enough to send the state of Maine into a tailspin; every company in the affected regions of the state had shut down, minus plow truck drivers, taxi cabs, and gas stations (those willing to stay open for the inevitable flood of bored locals looking to buy beer.) Unfortunately for Whitey Ford, he was one of those invevitables. The PCW superstar had wandered to a Cumberland Farms in search of all the beer they had.
Yes. All the beer.
Ford had made a habit of returning to his home state in between Trauma events, but in true Ford fashion he refused to be an adult and check the weather. He didn't notice the nor'easter coming straight to Maine, or the nearly two feet of snow very specifically slated to land on the day his flight was scheduled to depart. Again, in true Ford fashion, he had refused to pack any luggage because he 'couldn't be bothered.' Upon entering the gas station and finding out that somehow, someway, the manager refused to sell him all the beer in the store, let alone a six pack, Whitey had finally looked at his surroundings. All throughout the eight mile cab ride, he hadn't noticed the torrential snowstorm. Both his lack of attention and lack of being sold alcohol probably was a by-product of drinking himself stupid the last week to celebrate a well earned win.
His breath didn't only smell like booze; it even got the cashier drunk.
Opting out of throwing a hissy fit about not being served, Whitey had decided to trudge across the street to a small bar. Closed, of course, due to inclement wether. So Ford trudged on back, wearing nothing but a white wife beater and a pair of black shorts...and sandals, because why the fuck not? The cab companies he had tried to hail promised him a quick pickup from the gas station, but with the weather and the volume of calls it could take hours.
How many unemployed drug addicts are driving around this city as we speak, looking for their next hit? Ford thought to himself grimly, sitting inside and watching the snow fall. The gas station was fairly new, and sported a bar-like seating area near the bay windows for people to enjoy their gourmet nachos and microwaved hot dogs. I bet if I just put on fucking facebook that I'd buy a teener for the first junkie to pick me up I'd be on my way to the airport in no time. How the fuck was I going to transport a hundred cases of beer in a cab, anyways? Ford had sobered up in the hour or so he had been sitting inside, and cursed himself for being so spontaneously inneffective.
Still, the afterglow of his victory over Nathan Saniti and the infamous Grimm lingered in the back of his head, leaving a perma-smirk over his face despite the dire conditions. Even if he missed Trauma because of the weather, he had delivered the exact package that he promised at the last show; a nice big bushel of ass kicking and intellect that was sure to turn heads (as if he hadn't done that already.) Whitey cradled his chin in the palms of his hands, watching the traffic crawl by at a turtles pace, looking for the telltale yellow and black City Cab colors to come and take him away.
"Are you retarded?"
The voice jarred him from his half-daydreaming concentration, and his first instinct was to throw his right elbow towards the source of the sound. But for some reason his arms both felt numb...something about the flirty, sarcastic tone nearly froze him in his tracks. Whitey's watchful, knowing eyes darted over without him moving his body in the slightest, only to fall upon an unconventional beauty. A woman with pitch black hair and a tribal neck tattoo sat a few stools down from him, regarding him with a raised eyebrow and the corner of her mouth sneering upwards in a sarcastic smile.
Ford returned his gaze out the window, still not moving his body. "I mean, the teachers said I was, but I proved them wrong. I passed high school after 8 great, great, GREAT...good years." He replied, finally turning his head to get a better look at his antagonist. Her eyes were nowhere near as dark as her hair, shining a deep green hue in his direction without any shame. Most people, most of all women, would avert their eyes when Whitey made eye contact. This woman, though, kept her icy gaze fixated on his own blue eyes. Challenge accepted. When their eye contact broke, it wasn't out of fear or discomfort but almost out of boredom on her part. She wore what looked like seven different layers, starting with a long sleeve shirt, going into two or three pastel colored hoodies, and ending with two large winter coats.
"If you expect me to believe you actually passed high school, then you're calling me retarded, and I don't take insults from grown men who dress in wife beaters." The woman answered, readjusting her right hand around a Dunkin Donuts coffee, holding it in between her and the bay window. "And I called you retarded. I didn't mean to inspire conversation. Please shut up."
Ford barked out a laugh, confident on the outside as always, but on the inside he felt a little...shaken. "Listen, babe, I don't know if you know who I am, but I'm kind of a big deal. My name's--"
"I...DON'T...WANT...TO...TALK...TO...YOU." The raven haired beauty spoke in a sing song, mocking voice as she cradled her coffee with both hands now. In a bored fashion she turned her head to look past the PCW veteran, revealing that the right side of her head was shaved, and the long flowing black hair only rested on her back and left shoulder. The word 'smitten' flashed through Ford's mind for just an instant.
"...Whitey Ford. Maine native, I was raised in this town, and I believe you've heard of PCW, unless you're the pot calling the kettle black." He finished his statement anyways. "I see that you're kind of a daft punk rock kind of girl, so I'll explain it. I mean that--"
"That I'm retarded and you're not. Or, as I like to say...'I know you are but what am I.'" Came the woman's response, quick as a whip. "You must be desperate for a friend, if you continue to talk to someone who called you a fucking retard. Jesus, old man. Let it go." From within her outermost coat pocket, she pulled a soft pack of Marlboro's and tapped one out onto her palm. As Whitey reached his hand out to snatch it away from her, she recoiled just far enough to be out of reach. "Easy there. If you're going to smoke today, you might not be able to outlast Grimm in the ring." And with that, the woman stood up and headed towards the door, tossing her coffee in the trashcan outside as soon as the automatic doors opened.
Fully intrigued and a little bit awestruck, Ford followed the woman after a flabbergasted moment, rushing out behind her just as she struck a match to light her smoke. The wind was howling, but the match lit and the flame danced to and fro yet stayed lit...until Whitey blew it out with his own lungs, just out of spite. She glared at him, venom seeping from her eyes. "So you do know me!" He declared, proceeding to snatch the cigarette from her gloved hand...
...only to receive one of the hardest slaps the state of Maine had ever heard! The smoke dropped from his hands, the right side of his face numb. "Yes I fucking know who you are, you fucking...you fucking asshole!" She screamed in his face, and fed him one more slap across the left cheek this time. "I know that you've been questioned for murder twice. I know that you cheat as often as possible. I know that you're an alcoholic drug addict piece of shit, and I know that you're trying to change how people think of you on fucking television!" Spittle flew from her mouth, a surprising rage coming from her small, five-foot-something frame. "I know that you have no right saying that you're from Maine because it makes us all look bad. I know that you're going to fight Grimm, and win or lose, you're only going to hurt everyone else around you. You don't get to fuck with me, Whitey, because I AM a good person, not some fucking pretender! It's too late to pretend that your agenda is for the greater fucking good, we all know it's for you and you alone!"
She swung one more time, but this time Ford caught her by the wrist nearly effortlessly, pulling her in close. "Chill the fuck out, and don't hit me again."
Hellfire was shining bright in her eyes at this point, however. "You know, I followed you in USCW! I followed you in AWA! Before you decided to fuck the world and think of only yourself, and I fucking believed in you!" She screamed in his face. Eight out of the ten gas pumps were being used, and everybody was watching them now. Whitey felt trapped almost, and more than a little intimidated. "But you turned your back on everybody and did you, right? Get the fuck off me! LET ME FUCKING GO!"
His mind was racing. She was nobody to him, but her words cut him like a thousand knives. There was no reason he should feel anything for this overly bundled tiny woman, and God knows Whitey had no problem slapping the shit out of a woman for stepping over her boundaries. But he just stood there for a moment, and let go of her wrist. She believed in me? She knew me back when...back when... Before he could even finish his thought, his eyes went to her purse, a large knitted thing slung over her shoulder. Tears were welling in here eyes...
...eyes that widened with shock as a wiry man wearing a red hoodie ran out of the store, snatched the purse off of her shoulder with a violent tug, and in nearly the same instance leapt into the open door of a Honda Civic, coasting by. The car sped up as soon as the door closed.
Now this is where it gets a little fuzzy. Whitey's head began to spin, a perfect mixture of agony and rage roiling around inside of his skull. Somewhere, he could hear the woman screaming obscenities but he couldn't make out the words. Ford's vision became that of a tunnel, only focusing on the Civic as it spun out in the snowy parking lot, trying to gain traction and make an escape. That was the exact moment that he started running. At first Ford thought he could catch the car before it even left the parking lot, but one of his sandals betrayed him and he fell chin-first onto the wintery pavement. The warm feeling of a fresh wound eminated from his chin, but he paid it no mind, kicking off both sandals and regaining his feet, having minimally more success barefoot than with summer footwear in the February climate.
The Civic took a right out of the parking lot, still spinning it's tires trying to gain traction. Knowing he wouldn't be able to make it directly on time, Ford beelined it towards the sidewalk closest to the car in a straight shot. Just as the wheels started to accelerate as they should, he leapt with arms oustretched and managed to grab the trunk right near the rear windshield. Soon he was holding on for dear life, his legs flying from the back of the car, fingers clutching their hold with knuckle whitening pressure. However, only a few hundred feet from the gas station, the driver of the Civic slammed on the breaks with the hope of throwing his pursuer over the top of the car.
Whitey wasn't smart enough to 'roll with the punches,' however.
With the car coming to a sudden stop, Whitey flew forward head first, his forehead making a large spidery crack in the rear windshield. Blood was flowing freely from his chin and his new head wound now, making his grip precariously slippery. The Civic tried to continue forward, but once again the snow foiled any quick attempts of escape. Both doors must be locked...what the fuck am I doing? Am I trying to get that bitches purse back, what the FUCK AM I DOING?!?! In a sudden moment of insane clarity, Whitey used all of his arm and neck strength to pull his head towards the windshield, and smash his forhead into the already broken spot.
CRACK
CRACK
COCAINE ( Just kidding.) CRACK!
The rear window finally gave way, and Whitey pulled himself into the backseat of the car, blood flowing freely from his now aggravated wounds. The passenger was screaming, clutching his stolen purse in one hand and punching feebly at his under-dressed assailant. Whitey was running on adrenaline then, however, and felt nothing. With one solid backhand, he rendered the thief dazed and thoroughly confused. The driver gave up trying to accellerate and turned to face Ford with a roar of defiance only to have his cheek hooked with Ford's index and middle finger, fishooking him towards the former World Champion for a ferocious headbutt.
That last blunt force trauma to the head finally took it's took. The driver was out cold, but Whitey could feel the world spinning faster and harder than before. Woozily, he reached towards the purse sitting on the center console...but found his hand grasped by the thief! Raising his eyes dangerously, Whitey simply said "I will kill you," in a calm, controlled voice. The thief took one look at Ford and opened the car door, fleeing down a side street.
Whitey crawled fully inside of the car, squirming into the front seat and opening the drivers door, unceremoniously kicking him out onto the snow covered pavement. It was then he caught his face in the rear view mirror, a mask of blood seeping from a large gash on his forehead. But in the background, after getting over the initial nasea of seeing his own blood covering his stupid face...he noticed the black haired woman jogging up the street.
Whitey snatched the purse up, stepped out of the car and directly onto the drivers stomach as forceful as possible, and walked towards her. She paused for a moment, only letting her bravado falter for a second before storming up to him and snatching her property from his hands. "Friends of yours? Is this a fucking hoax?!?"
"Fuck. You." Whitey said as mean as possible, but he could feel his knees start to buckle. He put a hand on the car for balance, as incognito as possible. "You really followed me from as far back as USCW? Fine. Fucking fine. People change, and I did what I had to do. I made a name for myself and I broke from the fucking mold. Between you and me? I regret some of the things I did. I really do. But I'm a fucking champion, do you understand? I did it all for me. But don't...for a god damned second...believe that I'm doing this for myself. It's never too late to right some wrongs, and it's never too late to do some good in this world, even if cunts like you hound me every step of the way. Now excuse me. I have somewhere to be."
Ford half sat, half fell into the still running car, and started to drive off, hoping that the movement would keep him from passing out from the pain. "Wait!" He heard her voice again, still as intriguing as it had been a few minutes before. He didn't turn around, but locked eyes with her in the drivers side mirror.
"My name is Jaime. Thank you, Whitey. Prove me wrong...do the right thing. Men like you can save the world."
Whitey had no response he could vocalize, but a sense of pride nearly overwhelmed him then. So off he drove, a car thief in the end, but an unlikely vigalante in the long run.
